


Knowing

by Outofangband



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Valinor, Victim Blaming, implied abuse/torture, stigma - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 11:03:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17424662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outofangband/pseuds/Outofangband
Summary: Despite the tragedy and violence the Noldor have already faced, many still remain unsure how to help those who have experienced interpersonal violence. Especially when their greatest enemy was involved. Re-embodied or altered timeline, the start of a friendship between Maedhros and Maeglin in Valinor. Might write a second part if there is interest.





	Knowing

**Author's Note:**

> (WARNING: deals with implied abuse and the stigma that those who suffered PTSD from torture sometimes face, both in fictional settings and in real life)  
> (posted on Tumblr as well, @outofangband where most of my dark Maedhros content is)

 Maeglin stood awkwardly outside the door to his relative’s house, wondering whether he should knock or not. He was nervous. More nervous than he would have ever wanted to admit. Maeglin had very little experience with this part of his family and he had never particularly desired it either. But if this small meeting would put an end to the seemingly incessant urgings, surely he could manage a few minutes.    
    Maeglin had been encouraged to talk to his older cousin on several occasions, despite having never met or even heard more than a few sentences about him before he returned to Valinor. He could think of at least seven or eight times this had been suggested. At first, it was difficult to pick up a pattern as there were so many new faces being suggested to him, so many relatives that he was expected to meet. After awhile however, he started to understand. Urgings to meet or speak with Nelyafinwë were not random nor a particularly rare occurrence. Maeglin noted, with growing bitterness and resentment that it was only after something had troubled him; perhaps he had frozen up when someone put their hand on his shoulder, or he was observed rubbing at a faint scar on his wrist, or even flinching when the Dark Lord was mentioned by name, and someone would usher him aside and offer to introduce him to Fëanor’s son. The one time that Maeglin had actually brought up the fortress of Angband, all pretenses were dropped. A hand was raised and he was ushered into the hall.   
    “Go and speak with Nelyafinwë,” his uncle said, “He can help you.” Maeglin had managed to worsen the interaction by stalking off, muttering under his breath.   
    Maeglin had delayed this because while the suggestions seemed kind there felt the implication: do not bring mentions of that place here, go to another outcast, another one of Morgoth’s broken toys. It was not as though he had not heard the whispers about him, and about Nelyafinwë too. They were to be pitied, it was said, but treated with caution. It was simply not healthy for the Eldar to be in such close proximity to the Dark Vala for extended periods of time. There was no telling what affects that had on their minds or their Fëar. It angered Maeglin beyond expression to once again feel like a perpetual outsider and what was worse, this time he could not manage to disagree with the suspicions and rumors. Before at least he was confident enough to feel the sting of injustice whenever he became the subject of stares and whispers but now…he could not blame the other elves for how they treated him, no matter how furious it made him. Angband did things to you. More horrible and unspeakable things than those with their concerned murmurings and polite judgments could ever, ever know.  They were judging him for all the wrong reasons, Maeglin thought bitterly as he kicked a rock off the small step outside Maedhros’s door.   
    The older elf’s eyes narrowed slightly when he finally opened it. He did not say a word as he beckoned his cousin inside. Perhaps he had been told, or warned, of Maeglin’s arrival. The two stood together in the small living room without speaking for a few moments. It took some time for Maeglin to realize that the other elf was nervous though not, as he might have thought, of him. Maedhros’s hands shook and the way he moved seemed to express a constant nervous energy. Well, he could understand that at least.   
    “Would you like tea?” Maedhros breaks the awkward silence. Maeglin nods, if only to have a few moments alone while his cousin goes to heat water. For a member of the royal family, Maedhros’s home was startlingly bare. There were few personal possessions anywhere. Without meaning to, Maeglin’s mind was already understanding and sympathizing with why his cousin might be like this, at least if his own experiences could be any indication.   
Maedhros returns and gently places a mug in front of Maeglin on the small table between them. Maeglin waits for quite some time for his cousin to speak. When he does not, when he does not even look him in the face, he clears his throat rather awkwardly.  
“So…” he tries not to sound too annoyed. Maedhros looks up. His expression was hard to read. Some sympathy perhaps. Curiosity. No judgment, at least not yet.   
“Yes?”  
“I think I am supposed to talk to you,” says Maeglin. Maedhros leans back in his chair.  
“Do you want to talk to me?” he asks. It is not accusatory, merely interested. Maeglin gapes at him.   
“I mean…I do,” he starts, trying to remind himself to be polite, “But I think they expect us to start some Dark Lord Solidarity group or something and I don’t have any interest in that.” The corners of Maedhros’s mouth twitch as though he is about to smile.   
“Me either,” he says softly. Maeglin sighs.   
“Can I go then?” he asks, “I’ll say we had some great, long talk or something, I’ll tell them not to bother you about it.”   
“Do you want to go?” the words seem to leave Maedhros’s mouth before he thinks on them and he looks slightly embarrassed. Again, his tone is not accusatory but there is a hint of another emotion there. Maeglin considers him. Really, he had not expected that. He had hated the idea so much, others thinking that all he needed was to go off and spill his life story to someone who understood, that it had not occurred to him that his cousin might actually want some for of company, or, dare he think it, solidarity. After all, Maedhros lived alone in the middle of nowhere. Maeglin had merely assumed he wanted to be alone, that his mere arrival might worsen whatever memories his cousin was trying to avoid. But then again, he had heard the rumors whispered about Maedhros, as damning and cruel as they were about him.   
     There were a few who had escaped the mines of Angband who claimed they had never seen the Prince among the hundreds of slaves they had shared such intimate quarters with. They had heard a rumor or so of ‘the Noldor king’ from guards and older prisoners who had been granted some sort of contact with the outside, or at least, the above ground. He was not a slave as they were. Even here, in the hell of the Dark Lord’s creation, some less sympathetic rumors went, his status of royalty protected him from having to undertake the brutal labor that they did. Of course, no one who spoke such rumors really believed that Maedhros’s experience in Angband was at all pleasant or easy. But the already slandered prince was as good of a candidate as any for bitter venting.  
Some say he was tortured personally by the Dark Lord. Other, more suspicious and quiet rumors went that he was kept as a personal slave to Him, though what exactly this meant was unclear and unelaborated upon. Still more rumors whispered with mistrust and anger said that Morgoth had actually taught him some of his own dark craft, had poisoned his mind with his powers of corruption. The few occasions Maedhros found himself among large groups of the public, when he visited the small open market or walked through the town, it was painfully clear that the elves parted to allow him to pass, not out of reverence or because of his nobility, but out of fear.       And it was not merely the fear of the wrath of a Kinslayer. It was a deep sense of disquiet regarding the still young prince who had left the fortress of the Dark Lord with barely a scratch on his face. Morgoth himself had even mentioned Maedhros once or twice to Maeglin though the references were always too vague and chilling to be worth examining.   
Maeglin looks up. Maedhros is looking at him again.   
“Of course you can leave,” he says quickly, “I wish you a safe journey.” He tries for a smile but merely looks more nervous. Maeglin sighs. His eyes have fallen upon a few strange drawings the older elf has on the wall right above the bookshelf. Mushrooms. He has always liked mushrooms, finding them, studying them, watching them grow in the darkness. He makes a quick choice.  
“I’ll stay for a bit,” Maeglin says, “What are those? Did you draw them?”   
Maedhros blinks and it seems to take him a moment or two to realize what his cousin means. Then he actually does manage a smile.   
“Yes!” he says, “I did. I actually have a collection.” Maeglin stands, forgetting about manners. “I want to see that.”


End file.
